Drip, Drop
by preciselypotter
Summary: Countin' flowers on the wall, that don't bother me at all… You're dying, Sam. One-shot.


Disclaimer: I am a devoted servant of the Great Kripke and would never, _ever _steal anything he's ever created. I'm just having a little bit of fun.

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Drip, Drop

The wallpaper is a cheerful sunshine yellow decorated with little flowers, practically glowing the stark contrast of the blood soaking through the carpeted floor. The steady _drip_ of his life onto the ground is the only sound he can hear, a taunting noise, teasing his grasp on consciousness.

It's like the ticking of a clock.

Sam reaches a hand out to touch the yellow wall, feeling the pebbly texture under this fingertips, testing the surface. What he is testing for, he doesn't know.

Where is his brother?

A million thoughts could be flashing through his head, but that one stands out.

Where is Dean? Why isn't he here, helping, trying to save Sam's life? He's confused, disoriented, and like when he was a little boy he's searching for his big brother to make things okay for him. It doesn't matter that he's twenty-seven, fully capable of taking care of himself.

He wants his older brother.

It's scary as hell, knowing you're going to die a slow death. If only he'd been more careful…

Sam shouldn't have gone to church to pray. He knows this now, and he knew it then, but he has this burning need to atone for whatever he's done. Perhaps it's not his fault that he's the vessel for the Devil, that it's just luck of the draw, but Sam hates that he's intended for evil.

So he went to a service while Dean went out for food, and sat in the back as the priest talked about opening himself up to heaven. And Sam really did open himself up to heaven, because even though angels were dicks he wanted to be good enough for them.

But then an angel saw him, and followed him back to the motel…

And here he is, propped up against the wall with a hole in his chest from an angel sword.

He can the blood running through his limbs and towards the wound, pouring from him in a _drip, drop_ of inevitability.

Sam is alone, and he's scared. He doesn't clearly remember the last time he died, but it wasn't slow and painful like this.

Not like this.

Where is Dean?

Through the pain Sam can feel his fingers becoming numb, and his toes, and his hand on the wall can no longer feel the texture of the stucco. He blinks to clear away the darkness creeping at the edges of his vision, but it's still there.

"Help," he gasps, even though no one can hear him. He's hopeful anyways, against all odds.

He doesn't want to die like this. He doesn't want to die at all.

"Help me…"

When he tries to speak, his voice breaks and he coughs violently, his lungs failing. The dripping increases for a moment with the motion.

The flowers on the wall have little green stems, Sam notices. The stems aren't natural looking; it's as if the designer wanted to make things more surreal, more surreal than white and pink flowers on a yellow background.

Sam feels like he's swimming, his head is light and empty and floating through space.

_Drip, drip, drop…_

It's time, isn't it? But where's Dean? His brother should be here, for this moment. He wants only one person in the world to be with him right now. He doesn't want to be alone.

In the background, he hears a noise, the rattling of a doorknob, but he's too far gone to care.

"Sammy, you won't believe what just happened to me," he hears Dean say, a smile in his brother's voice. "I was… Sam?"

It all changes then, from play to panic in an instant. "Sam? Sam!"

Hands are at is side, shaking him. Sam hears the _drip_ speed up, his head lolling uselessly against the yellow wall. The darkness in his eyesight is thickening and spreading, becoming a cancer in his body. Now he can't feel, or breathe. Each breath is a labor that is harder and harder to perform.

"No, Sammy, no! _Cas! CAS!_"

Sam shakes his head, because Castiel can't do anything. He knows this, Dean should know this.

"Michael!" he hears his brother yell. "_Michael!_"

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